


The Story Of Tonight

by getoffmybarricade



Category: Les Miserables
Genre: Canon Era, Enjolras Has Feelings, Les Amis de l’ABC, M/M, Mentions of Gavroche, Sad Grantaire, mentions of Courfeyrac - Freeform, mentions of Jean ‘Jehan’ Prouvaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:22:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22899451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmybarricade/pseuds/getoffmybarricade
Summary: I’m sorry.” He mumbled quietly, his voice soft and raw.Fifteen minutes ago, Enjolras would have rolled his eyes and stalked away, completely disregarding the cynic’s feelings. He would have still felt bad, but Grantaire’s spiteful comment had tore through him, filling his heart with a cold hatred. But now? As he looked at Grantaire, properly looked at him; cast aside the irritation and hurt, he knew there was no way he could leave him. Not now, not like this.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire
Comments: 5
Kudos: 53





	The Story Of Tonight

A gentle breeze blew over the cobbled streets of Paris, and a young man sat alone in the Musain, running his fingers through his golden curls. Enjolras sighed and rubbed at his eyes, a strange, constructing feeling squeezing in his chest. 

It must have been over an hour since Grantaire’s outburst, but his words still echoed in Enjolras’s mind. “ _ Will the world remember you when you fall? Can it be your death means nothing at all?” _

What if he was right? What if after everything, their cause was forgotten? Their lives worth nothing more than the dirt beneath the people’s feet? 

“ _ Is your life just one more lie?” _

Most of the other’s were asleep now, their minds far away from the horrors that the morning would inevitably bring. But Enjolras couldn’t rest; perhaps it was a mixture of fear or anticipation, or maybe it was something completely different. All he knew was that he needed to speak with the cynical artist who sat upon the barricade now, his dark hair blowing about his face. 

He stepped outside of the Musain door, pausing for a moment before making his way over to the barricade. If he was being honest, it should be someone like Jehan or Courfeyrac doing this; someone who’s natural instinct wasn’t to shout until he was listened to. Bur they weren’t open options at the moment, so himself would have to do. 

Enjolras knew there was something about the skeptic that intrigued him, and he knew that something deeper than friendship ran between them. Something that the very notion of scared him-and he wasn’t  _ allowed  _ to show fear-so he buried it away, compressed it under a layer of passion and determination and refused to let it bubble up to the surface. And instead, some kind of barrier formed between the two, a tornado of poisonous words and cutting remarks that hurt Enjolras to say  _ but what else could he do? _

Grantaire believed in nothing. 

Not even him. 

And that hurt. It hurt to know that someone so tied into the cause didn’t stand for what he believed in, would give his whole life for in a heartbeat. 

He climbed the barricade soundlessly, not wanting to disturb Grantaire but still wanting him to feel his presence. Enjolras froze as he reached the top, strangely unsure of what to do next. He coughed, letting Grantaire know he was there, and then lowered himself down next to him. 

An uncomfortable silence fell between the two; Enjolras fidgeting awkwardly beside Grantaire, who kept his eyes trained on his feet. The silence was thick with tension, building and building until finally Enjolras couldn’t stand it anymore. 

“How are...are you okay?” He asked, glancing up at Grantaire and then back down again as he caught his eye. 

“Fantastic.” Grantaire said bitterly, his ebony curls blowing across his face. “Absolutely great.”

Grantaire dropped his gaze to the floor, shoulders shaking with more than just the cold. 

“Grantaire-“ 

“-I’m fine.” He said sharply, but there was an edge to his voice, almost like a question, and Enjolras was not a man who cried but the amount of pain he could hear in the other man’s voice made his own eyes prickle with tears. Grantaire looked up at Enjolras; his eyes were glassy and red, whirlpools of despair and pain. Tears streaked down his face and he just looked so...defeated. 

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled quietly, his voice soft and raw. 

Fifteen minutes ago, Enjolras would have rolled his eyes and stalked away, completely disregarding the cynic’s feelings. He would have still felt bad, but Grantaire’s spiteful comment had tore through him, filling his heart with a cold hatred. But now? As he looked at Grantaire, properly looked at him; cast aside the irritation and hurt, he knew there was no way he could leave him. Not now, not like this. 

“We all say things we wish we could take back, Grantaire,” Enjolras replied, looking back out at the streets of Paris. His home. Somewhere that deserved to be free. “It’s whether deep inside we believe them to be true that counts.” 

He watched as Grantaire’s eyes widened slightly, started shaking his head. 

“You think I don’t believe in you?” He seemed to be genuinely surprised by this, but what could Enjolras say? He did nothing but mock every one of his ideals, tear apart his arguments. He was a cynic, whilst Enjolras was an idealist. 

“Enjolras, you must be the one thing in this hell of a world I have faith in!” The shock must have registered on his face, for Grantaire ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply. “I wish I could see the world as you do,” he continued. “but I’ve seen that the world doesn’t want to be changed. By me at least. But you, you are different; if anyone can make that change, it’s you.”

Grantaire’s words rang in the silence that had fallen, and Enjolras didn’t reply. He just smiled up at the other man, his eyes burning with kind of passion that they did in the heat of one of his speeches. 

Enjolras was reminded of the long nights at the Musain, where he would spend his time viciously scribbling down notes and theories. Where he would feel the presence of Grantaire in the corner, feel his eyes burning into him.And he  knew  there was something between them, knew there was a connection drawing them in them that kept himself grounded and Grantaire from spiralling. But instead of speaking to him, Enjolras pushed him away, cold words of hate flying between them like shards of ice. 

“It’s my fault.” Grantaire croaked, fresh tears suddenly blossoming from his eyes; a mixture of fear and raw sadness. The kind of sadness that digs it’s way into your soul and burrows itself there, numbing everything else until there’s nothing left but the ache and pain of your own heart; shattered, bruised and damaged. 

“What is?” Enjolras asked tentatively, almost sure of the answer he was going to get. 

“His death. Gavroche’s death.” 

“Grantaire, it’s not-“

“-no! I should have taken care of him. He was  a _child_ ,  Enjolras! A child.”

“And I agree, he shouldn’t have been at the barricades, but if his mind was really set on it, who could have stopped him?” 

Silence. 

Nothing except the bitter wind that whispered down their necks; the air delicate, as though the next person to speak could shatter the stillness. Enjolras felt his stomach twist with sadness. Gavroche was a child. He should never have been there, never had had to witness the horrors that men could do, never have to suffer and pay the price of someone else’s selfishness. Enjolras knew that Grantaire would always feel responsible-he looked after him, after all- but there was no way he should have to carry this immense pressure of guilt with him should he live after the Revolution. 

Should any of them live. 

Enjolras may be optimistic, but he wasn’t foolish. He was completely aware that by staying here, he was indefinitely leading his friends to their deaths. When tomorrow arrives, they have one chance to surrender. And it would be so easy;  ‘we have no chance, we surrender .” But that was not how this worked, and there was no doubt they would be killed for treason. It was a possibility they could escape, but what good would that do? It was with a heavy heart but renewed courage that he accepted their fate-something that deep down he had known for a long time. It was his friends accepting their deaths that tortured him. 

“Do you remember that night at the Musain,” Grantaire said quietly, his shaky voice barely more than a whisper, “when Combeferre was sick, and you were waiting for him?”

Enjolras nodded, unsure of where this conversation was headed but intrigued all the same. “How much do you remember?”

_ It was a few weeks before the Revolution, and Combeferre had promised Enjolras he’d help him go over some of the plans they’d made. But Combeferre was sick. So Enjolras had to make do with his own company.  _

_He must have spent hours sitting there, his eyes flicking between sleep and consciousness , when he heard the footsteps of someone else arrive. “He’s not coming.”_

_ Enjolras rolled his eyes, but knew Grantaire was right. He dropped his head and sighed, rubbing at his tired eyes. “Sleep.” Grantaire said softly, a hint of amusement in his voice.  _

_ “I can’t.” Enjolras replied.  _

“ _Do angels sleep anyway?” Grantaire teased, sitting down heavily opposite him. “Do they ever have to suffer from the burdenof sleep like us mortals?”_

_ “Are you drunk, Grantaire?” Enjolras mumbled, eyes already beginning to give in in to sleep. _

_ “I haven’t so much as touched a drop,” Grantaire said quietly, and although Enjolras was quite sure it was a lie, there wasn’t a slur to his voice, “simply intoxicated by your presence, fearless leader.”  _

_ Enjolras barely heard him, giving in to sleep’s grip, Grantaire’s voice little more than a distant mutter. But just before he was completely pulled under, he thought he heard the hitch of a breath, almost like a quiet sob, and a muffled whisper of  _

_ “I love you.”  _

At the time, he hadn’t been sure if that was even what he heard; it could have been a trick of his mind, anything. And why would Grantaire say something like that? Truth be told, Enjolras was almost completely sure the man hated him, despised him even. 

So he must have heard it wrong. 

And even if he didn’t, then the obvious explanation was that Grantaire was probably drunk out of his mind. Which wasn’t a surprise. 

And although he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it quite frequently since then, he hadn’t thought it strange. What he did find odd was that Grantaire would choose to bring it up now. Well, that day anyway, who knows if he could even recall that night clearly?

“I remember all of it.” Enjolras whispered softly. 

“Me too.” 

Enjolras blinked. All of it? “I wasn’t drunk, you know,” Grantaire continued, his voice edged with pain. 

“You weren’t?” Enjolras flinched at the way that sounded; like he was accusing and didn’t believe him. Grantaire shook his head and let a single tear fall. 

“No.” 

A moment of silence fell between them, a painful silence that dug at Enjolras’s insides until he had to say what was on his mind before it killed him. He squeezed his own hand tightly, wrapping his fingers around each other as his heart pounded in his chest. 

“But that was the night-“

“-that I told you I loved you?” Enjolras breathed in sharply. “I know.” 

Grantaire moved to look at him, but Enjolras kept his head down, eyes trained on the ground whilst his heart pounded in his chest. 

“And I’d be lying if I told youit wasn’t true now.”

And it was as though everything slotted into place; the eyes trained on him from the corners of the room, feeling Grantaire’s eyes on him as he rallied the people. Grantaire was  always there.  No matter how much he mocked his ideals or laughed at his optimism, he never once missed a meeting. Or a protest. Or a rally. Never. 

And suddenly Enjolras could place those...those feelings...that he’d been having. And deep down, he’s known for quite a while. 

After all, love can often be mistaken for hate. 

And like he would have done a few hours ago, Enjolras didn’t leave or distance himself. Instead, he moved his own delicate hand to cover the calloused ones of Grantaire. He lifted his eyes to meet Grantaire’s as he heard the slight gasp escape the other man’s lips. 

A tear fell down his own cheek as he carefully, carefully, brought Grantaire’s hand up to his lips, pressing a single kiss gently to them. He watched as a bit of the pain and sadness lifted from his eyes, felt his own heart swell with so many different emotions he couldn’t place. 

Enjolras smiled up at him, feeling weightless and free, before resting his head on the older man’s shoulders. He buried his face in Grantaire’s inky curls and sighed. 

A sudden feeling of dread overcame him and he gripped the other man’s hand tightly, causing Grantaire to sit up straighter, more alert. “What is it?” 

“To-tomorrow,” Enjolras stammered, his voice jumping an octave as his fear enveloped him. “The Revolution-“

“-it’s okay,” Grantaire soothed, “I don’t fear death.”

“No, Grantaire please! I will permit you to fight with me, but I will  _ not  _ permit you to die for me.”

Grantaire didn’t respond, only squeezed his hand tightly, and Enjolras knew that he could not protect him, even if he put all his will into it. 

Instead, he rested his head back on the other man’s shoulder, letting him tangle his fingers in his own curls, wishing that just for a moment, the world would stop spinning. 

It would just be them. And only them. There was no revolution that would cost them their lives, there was no fear and anger and sadness in their hearts. They were alone, without anyone else in the would to tear them apart, break them away, throw them in front of death with nothing but hope to somehow guide them through it. 

But that could not be. 

Not for them. 

Not in this life, anyway. 

Under the stars of Paris, two hearts shattered but didn’t fall apart; they were drawn together by their individual incompleteness, this keeping the Leader grounded and the cynic from spiralling. 

Two hearts pulled closer as one, but fragile even so. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Somehow, Grantaire had ended up with the other man’s head in his lap, golden curls displayed like a halo around his head. Grantaire felt his heart skip a beat in his chest, his hands shaking as he began to really process what was happening. It couldn’t make his grief disappear, that wouldn’t be possible, but having his Apollo just  there  with him was the closest thing that came to numbing it. 

He truly was beautiful, Grantaire mused, as he looked down at Enjolras’s sleeping form. Thinking about it properly, he guessed this was probably the first time his leader had resigned himself to sleep for a few days, what with the Revolution dawning near. 

But there was no sign of stress upon his face now, his brow wasn’t furrowed in concentration, his eyebrows weren’t drawn together with frustration. In fact, he looked almost peaceful; pale skin illuminated by the moonlight, dark lashes fluttering softly and his eyelids closed tight over what Grantaire knew to be piercing blue eyes. He wore that red coat that signified him as the leader, embroidered with gold. How perfect that red was the colour that matched him? Red, the colour of fire and anger, of love and passion and defiance. 

He tried to absorb every last detail of the other man, keeping a clear image in his mind should this be their last night. 

Grantaire let out a bitter laugh. How funny, he thought, that this was their first but yet last night together. After all of the years, raging fires of anger and frustration burning between them, the storm had finally passed.

And yet, look at where they were now. 

He couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from the golden haired God beside him, and so when suddenly his hazel eyes were met with the icy blue, his heart jumped again. He was greeted briefly with a warm smile, before confusion began to cloud his eyes. “You stayed awake this whole time?” Enjolras’s voice was soft from being just pulled out of sleep and Grantaire had never heard anything as heavenly. 

“Someone ought to keep watch.”

He laughed gently, though he doubted he would ever have been able to succumb to sleep tonight anyway. 

“I’m sorry.” Grantaire could hear the sincere guilt in his voice, and a slightly smile immediately tugged at the corners of his lips. 

“Don’t be,” be whispered softly. 

And to say he was beautiful in that moment would be an understatement; he was godly. There was nothing on this earth that Grantaire could use to describe him; the way his curls seemed impossibly soft, how his skin glowed in the moonlight. Apollo. 

He’d always made the reference towards the Greek God and he was sure that Enjolras thought it some kind of tease. But truthfully, it wasn’t.It had started out with just not knowing his name, seeing him through the windows in all his glory. But then it was to get a rise out of him, the only way he could ever get his attention. It was low, sure, but it meant that even for just a moment, he was the one thing on the other man’s mind.And then it developed into being just how he viewed Enjolras. Godly. Unearthly. Beautiful. He was just so above all humankind that even comparing him to a God wouldn’t suffice. 

As Grantaire glanced back down at the golden haired man, he was overcome with a sudden urge to just kiss him. And though he’d be lying if he said that particular thought had never once crossed his mind, he was still wary that Enjolras wouldn’t want it, and he’d ruin whatever it was that they had. 

But he could almost see the smile in Enjolras’s eyes, warm and comforting, and he gently moved himself forwards, Enjolras lifting up slightly until they were so close, Grantaire could count every freckle on the other man’s face. Could see each individual eyelash flutter as he blinked, and feel warm breathe on his cheek as Enjolras breathing hitched. 

Gently, not wanting to frighten him, Grantaire pressed his lips to Enjolras’s, revelling in the sweet sensation that flowed throughout his body. He felt light and carefree, forgetting about the horrors of the next day, the entire world falling away until there was nothing but the two of them, pressed tightly against each other. 

They broke apart for air, Grantaire laughing softly into Enjolras’s red lips, whispering softly against them, “I love you.”

Enjolras didn’t need to reply. The fire that burst to life inside of his eyes said it all. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Grantaire awoke to the smell of dust and metallic blood. He arched his back in a feeble attempt to dispel the aching whilst yawning into his arm. He had been slumped forwards onto the wooden table, his bottle of wine long since smashed into pieces on the floor, the contents staining it as red as blood. 

_ Blood.  _

How long had he been asleep? He vaguely remembered being sat at one of the tables-this table, in fact-with Enjolras. He’d given him a drink, told him it should numb some of the pain. 

_Shit._ He’d thought it odd; Enjolras usually rolled his eyes at Grantaire’s alcoholism, wrinkled his nose in disgust at the stale smell of wine. 

And then Enjolras’s words floated into his mind, whispered into the darkness as the blue of his eyes bore into Grantaire’s own. 

“ _ I will permit you to fight with me but I will  _ not _ permit you to die for me...” _

And Grantaire could say it was his own bad habit of drinking far too much that had landed him in this inebriated stupor, but he knew better. In fact, he had been almost completely sober...

Enjolras had done something to his drink. Something to make sure he would not wake up until the fight was over, when everything was already finished. 

He sat up quickly, his eyes snapping back into focus as his heart dropped into his stomach. Enjolras was dead, and if not, in horrible danger. Grantaire pushed back his chair, ignoring the way it clattered to the floor in his haste, and staggered up the stairs to the top room of the Musain...

Enjolras stood facing twelve guards, every gun trained on himself. “Are you the Leader of the Revolution?” One of them asked, his dark eyes showing no remorse. This was the end, he realised with a jolt. 

Everything he’d ever fought for. 

He felt a lump in his throat rise, but he would not let a single tear fall. 

Everyone was dead. Gone. Lost. 

At least Grantaire was safe from harm. He’d felt terrible, but he shouldn’t have to die for something he didn’t believe in. By the time he’d wake up, everything would be over. He could die in peace without having Grantaire’s death looming over him. 

Enjolras raised his chin, looking the guard directly in the eyes, burning straight into his soul. Almost daring him to shoot. 

A single nod of his head. 

It should be over. Why wasn’t it over? Enjolras glanced over to the doorway and felt his heart clench tightly.

Because there was Grantaire; hazel eyes misty and slightly unfocused, ebony curls mattered and sticking out. His shirt collar was crumpled and dark green waistcoat unbuttoned. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows and he pushed through the guards with a slight stagger to his step. 

The Guards’ didn’t even shoot at him. Their faces were ones of complete shock. Who willingly gave their life up? Who turned to face death instead of hiding in the shadows until they could turn to freedom? 

“Vive la Republic!” Grantaire shouted, his voice horse from the mixture of tears that fell down his cheeks and his drunken state. 

Enjolras had never seen such fire in his eyes, such _defiance_ in them, eyes that burned and wept and screamed all at once. 

Like his own. 

“Finish us both with one blow.” He said, his voice carrying in the room where they had once planned, once laughed and dreamed and cared. Cared enough to fight for what they believed was right, was should be right. Even when they were gone, their voices would still echo in the empty room. Ghosts of the past but yet still of the future.  They  were the future. 

Fragments of hope and courage in the darkness of the world, beacons of light. 

Grantaire locked eyes with Enjolras, a warm smile upon his face, though his eyes still leaked tears. But not because of death, he did not fear death at all. He was already grieving for the loss of the greatest thing the world had ever seen: Enjolras. 

“Permets-tu?” He asked softly.   
  
_Do you permit it?_  
  
Because if Enjolras allowed it, so did he. And with a small smile, Enjolras pressed his hand to Grantaire’s; the calloused hand of an artist and the slender ones of a revolutionary clasped tightly together in the face of death. They were words painted by artists, and ideals sung through the colours of the world, together keeping each other standing. Without one, the other would fall alone. 

It was a question of acceptance, of friendship and most importantly, of love. Grantaire knew that he would fight with Enjolras until the stars burnt out.

Would follow him to the ends of the world and back. 

Would follow him into the dark. 

Forever. 

How long is forever? Sometimes, just one second. 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so technically, this would be set around the time Drink With Me takes place   
> So I know that Gavroche wouldn’t actually be dead  
> But for the purpose of this story he is :(   
> Also, if it wasn’t clear, Enj drugged R’s drink in an attempt to get him to sleep through the fight   
> So yeah 🙃


End file.
